


These Paper Pages

by novaranthine



Category: unOrdinary (Webcomic)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Multi, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 19,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25261846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novaranthine/pseuds/novaranthine
Summary: 『 𝖨 𝗐𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌. 』A collection of oneshots to satisfy my need for content.
Relationships: Arlo/Blyke (unOrdinary), Arlo/John Doe (unOrdinary), Arlo/Rei (unOrdinary), Arlo/Remi (unOrdinary), Arlo/Seraphina (unOrdinary), Blyke/Isen (unOrdinary), John Doe/Rei (unOrdinary), John Doe/Seraphina (unOrdinary)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 73





	1. a star falls in retrograde

**Author's Note:**

> stripped of their abilities, the cast are isekai'd to the world of omniscient reader's viewpoint. they must clear the scenarios and reach the end if they want to return, it's a lot harder than it sounds. 
> 
> or
> 
> blyke is a regressor and sees the people he cares about die over again and again. regression saves no one.

"let me ask then," he pauses, thoughtful and unassuming, "have you protected everything you wanted protect?"

blyke finds himself trapped within a glaringly bright white room that makes his eyes squint at the sheer light. it has no ceiling. before them, the universe is nothing but a void, a vast darkness stretching from one end to another. an existence with no defined end or beginning.

"where am i?" blyke demands as he stares at the man whose existence is like a hazy photograph, a distant memory already fading from his consciousness.

"you'll know." another pause. "someday. when we meet again as ██████." he's losing focus of his face. like a smudged photograph, his vision of it blurs and yet somehow he knows that the man in front of him is smiling at him in a way that makes his heart ache with _something_ he can't quite grasp.

blyke wakes up from a dream. he doesn't know why but his chest aches as tears roll down his cheeks, there is a memory that haunts him, one he can't quite place. 

* * *

they lose remi first and he sees the way rei breaks as he cradles her body ( _she's so small and fragile—_ ) in his arms and buries his face in her hair and sobs. they couldn't save her, they weren't strong enough to. he looks away, his own tears pooling at the corners of his eyes and rolling down his cheeks as he bites back the sob threatening to spill from his lips.

from there, they break little by little.

blyke watches as rei becomes reckless and angry and distant before he eventually leaves without a word of goodbye. he watches as arlo grows colder and ruthless, watches as isen hides away the heartache of losing a friend behind forced smile and false cheer. he watches as seraphina and john eventually falls apart and leaves, unable to resolve festering hurts that had haunted them from the beginning. they move forward regardless, they've come this far.

forty-five scenarios later, it's only blyke that remains standing, bathed in crimson beneath the waning sun.

everything hurts. his vision swims but he moves forward, sword gripped tightly in his hands as he dashes forward. he holds the blade high above his head before he swings down with beast-like viciousness. left, right, he swings and swings until his hands can no longer hold on to the hilt of the sword and it clatters on the ground numbly. there's a foggy sound of his knees hitting the ground, ragged breath leaving wisps of warm air swirling in the air.

the last thing he sees between the curtains of his hair and red blood obscuring his vision is a cruel smile as a dagger buries itself between the spaces of his ribcage.

[ your stigma has been activated ]

[ regression lv. 1 ]

* * *

  
blyke finds himself in the beginning. his heart jumps to his throat when he sees them intact, alive, and real. he sinks in isen's arms when he cradles him in his embrace, nimble fingers running through his hair as he whispers words of comfort in his ears. he does not let go.

they make it past the thirty-five scenarios without losing someone.

then john sacrifices himself for rei and everything falls apart as seraphina looks at them with accusing eyes.

"you don't understand anything." is what she says as she slaps arlo hard enough that it leaves an angry red mark on his cheek. there are tears kissing her pale face, tear tracks raw and red as she wipes away her tears with the back of her hand. "you never do." 

arlo remains quiet, but his blue eyes are a reminiscent of a dark storm churning in the heart of the sea as the words he wants to say dies on his tongue. seraphina leaves without looking back, neither of them chases after her. 

he loses everything on the forty-eight scenario and blyke rams his own sword through his heart.

* * *

  
blyke breaks, little by little, steadily. every heartache, every death, every faint memories of moments of happiness wraps around him like an unbreakable chain that reminds him of world lines he had failed. no one will understand.

* * *

  
it was during the twelfth regression that he falls in love with arlo.

it was only them left, left to witness the end of the world together, fighting tooth and nail to tear the constellations from their thrones in the night sky. blyke rests his head on arlo's chest, listening to the reverberating heartbeat pulsing beneath his skin as they watch the skies turn madder red as the wild winds whip around harshly. they tangle their fingers together, holding on to each other as the earth below them splinters and breaks.

"i love you." arlo tells him, his lips pressed against the crown of his head. he buries his nose in his hair, inhaling the smell of earth and sea salt. blyke sobs softly against his chest, fingers gripping the fabric of his coat tightly, hoping it would tether him to this world line. he wishes he could stay. 

"i love you too." blyke kisses him, despair and desperation clear in his action as he pulls him in and hopes that arlo will never let go. that he'll never go.

the skies rumble and chaos descends. arlo dies and blyke is once more thrown back into the past.

* * *

  
it's hard to look at isen. it hurts to look at isen. blyke hates himself as he holds isen's hand in his and feels nothing because his heart belongs to arlo now and yet he couldn't let go of the hand he's holding. he's greedy and selfish, he wants to hold on to both.

he knows that the arlo of this regression is not his arlo. this is not the arlo who held his hand as they fought tooth and nail to push past grief and suffering at the hands of constellations. this is not the arlo who smiles at him softly as they huddle together by the fire, their heartbeats in sync as they swear to watch each of those stars fall. this is not the arlo who witnessed the end with him. and yet blyke yearns to hold his hand again, to feel his lips on his, to hear his heartbeat. he yearns for a past he cannot return to.

blyke is also viscerally aware that this isen is not his isen either— he lost him a long time ago. he blames himself for it, for being so naive then, for being so weak and powerless that he couldn't do anything to save him. he made a promise to himself and isen then—he's save him no matter what, that he would love him in every world line, that he'd never let go.

he couldn't keep that promise.

"why are you looking at me like that?" isen asks him one night when they are alone beneath the shadows of night and slivers of moonlight.

"like what?" blyke licks his lips, dread pooling at his stomach.

"like you don't even know me anymore." there's no anger in his voice, and yet it still hurts. "like you've lost me a long time ago."

that makes him flinch and isen notices and understands as he looks at him with such heartbreakingly sad eyes. "you have that stigma..."

his silence is the only confirmation he needs. isen holds his hand and blyke breaks and buries his face in the crook of his shoulder.

* * *

  
he loses them again.

blyke buries them this time. He builds makeshift gravestones and painstakingly carves their name on it. he struggles, eyes blurred by tears and fingers shaking as he quietly sobs. he finishes it anyways. by the end of it, his hands accumulate more scars but blyke doesn't mind, he doesn't mind at all. 

"one more time. _please_ let me save them all this time." he pleads, fingers caked in dirt and blood as he stands before their graves.

blyke regresses. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this oneshot is based on the webnovel called "omniscient reader's viewpoint" by sing-shong. i went on a binge reading spree and finished 551 chapters in five days and felt the greatest urge to write an orv! au...so, here we are.
> 
> you can find my oneshots in wattpad as well as the unOrdinary amino.
> 
> https://my.w.tt/yuMN820f77
> 
> http://aminoapps.com/p/y5q8tz


	2. ' Friends ' (Jarlo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Arlo are friends with benefit, but their casual meetings are crossing the line between casual sex and genuine intimacy. It takes jealousy and a lot of alcohol for them to agree that they do, in fact, want each other. 
> 
> “Do you want us to be more than that?” Arlo’s voice his quiet and barely audible from the sound. He tilts John’s chin up, forcing him to look into his eyes. He nods and Arlo sucks in a sharp breath.
> 
> “Then what’s stopping you?”

A smile appears on his lips, meeting Arlo’s piercing gaze, John nods his head before turning his attention back to Hieronymus who had comfortably settled on his lap. He grips his chin, tugging the blond closer to him and his gaze returns to Arlo again. Without breaking eye contact, he tilts Hieronymus’ chin and leans in, his lips grazing against his exposed neck. He relishes at the sight of Arlo’s composure slipping, ocean blue eyes wild and promising of possible destruction. John savours the moment, a smirk forming on his lips as he studies his stiff figure, hands curling into fists so tightly that the can crumples and the liquid bubbles from the mouth.

“Enjoying yourself there?” Hieronymus drapes his arms around his neck, fingers threading through his locks of messy raven hair. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips as he parts from John’s hold. “Is my little vampire watching as well?”

John chuckles, his breath warm against Hieronymus’ skin, “With great attention, both of them actually.” He trails kisses up his neck before slowly moving to his jaw, lips brushing tenderly against the exposed skin. “How long do you think it will take for them to make a move?”

Hieronymus hums, twirling a loose strand of hair, he briefly cranes his neck to steal a glance at the two males just out of his sight, he smiles before looking away. “If they’re alike, then it shouldn’t be long now.” He takes a shuddering breath when John’s lips brushes against a rather sensitive area. “They’ll kill us both if it means keeping us to themselves.”

“That’s morbid, Hiero.” He pulls himself away and leans back against the leather seat, an eyebrow raised as he stares up at the blond. “I don’t think they’ll go that far, Arlo knows his limits, he wouldn’t go as far as that.”

He grins, and John marvels as the strobing neon lights move with the shadows obscuring his face, “Maybe not Arlo, but Chase just might. He’d bite you on the neck and feast on your blood.” He pauses, his smile growing wider and a laugh bursts from his lips, “Or maybe he’ll send you Sorin out a window.”

John couldn’t help but groan at the terrible pun, rolling his eyes at the blond, he flicks him on the forehead as he attempts to hide the small smile appearing on his lips. “Stop, it’s not that funny anymore.” he complains despite his poorly masked amusement.

And Hieronymus laughs, “Mhm, maybe. But you still find it kinda amusing despite your complaints.”

Arlo watches, his blood boiling as he observes from the distance; dread tugs down at his stomach, melding with both disgust and poorly disguised jealousy as John’s hand wanders just below Hieronymus’ thigh. When the raven-haired male parts from the blond, it irks Arlo quite terribly at how comfortable he looks on top him, straddling what is his-

He runs his hand through locks of dishevelled blond hair, John isn’t his to begin with, they were just ‘friends’ as he would put it. There was nothing more between them, nothing romantic, only lust and ill-placed desires of wanting something neither of them could have and so they sought comfort in each other’s misery. But now, Arlo reflects, he finds himself seeking something more, something intimate and long lasting rather than phone calls at twelve in the morning where he should be asleep but he isn’t because the bed is cold and the apartment is empty and dreadful. He looks down at the crumpled beer can and sighs, the throb of every beat of music reverberating within the enclosed space and the flashing neon lights coupled with the noise of the crowd as they scream and holler with the music was giving him a headache. The alcohol, the accursed beverages, coursing in his system was not helping. He pinches the bridge of his nose, stealing one last glance at the two who had comfortably hidden themselves away in the corner, Arlo scowls and pushes himself through the crowd and disappears.

The amusement of seeing Arlo simmer in jealousy soon slips as John watches him disappear in the crowd. His stomach rolls and clenches, maybe he had taken it too far. Shoving Hieronymus off his lap, who had yelped and muttered obscenities underneath his breath but John couldn’t care less as he springs to his feet. Without so much as a word, he pushes past the crowd infested with drunken young adults and the occasional sober friend whose stuck with driving everyone home. There are no apologies thrown as he carelessly navigate through the sea of bodies stumbling on their feet as they move to the sway of the music. Five more drunk people shoved aside and a near brush of getting into a fist fight, John finally spots him.

“Arlo!” He calls out as he finally makes his way out of the bodies messily mashed in the dance floor. The blond pauses for a moment, appearing conflicted to whether he should turn around or keep on walking. The brief pause was enough for John to finally catch up to him and grab hold of his wrist.

The next few seconds come as a blur, to John’s surprise, the blond has enough strength and sense of coordination to pin him against the wall. Arlo firmly plants his hands on either side of his head, using the wall as a leverage to hold his weight as he towers over the raven haired male. His warm breath, infused with the strong smell of alcohol, fans his face for a brief moment before Arlo leans in and presses his lips against his. And John doesn’t hesitate to return it. He wraps his arms around his neck and pulls him closer. The tension explodes as pent-up frustration burst forth to the surface and it pushes them both over the edge of rough and heated passion and lust lacing their lips like sweet, sweet, candy that leaves them craving for more.

They pull apart eventually, both out of breath and red-faced. John cups his cheeks and tugs him forward again, wanting another kiss despite barely recovering from the previous one, but Arlo resist. They stare in each other’s eyes darkened by desire and need of touches only privy to both of them in the confines of the bedroom.

“What exactly are we?” The question takes him by surprise, John searches his eyes for a clue, urging him to specify. Frustration twists Arlo’s features, running one hand through his hair and carelessly tugging at it in his irritation. “What the hell are we? Because surely were far off from being...” he pauses, taking a deep breath as he fixes his stare at him.

“Just friends?” The words roll of his tongue like acid, John spits it as if it burnt him. Arlo falls quiet, John brushes his thumb against his cheek before he pulls his hand back, “To be honest, I don’t know how to answer that.” Because he wants it to be more than that, he wants more than just sitting in his bedroom and staring at his phone as he waits for him to call. It’s always the same time, always the same day, and it’s his fault that he’s hooked into this toxicity.

“Do you want us to be more than that?” Arlo’s voice his quiet and barely audible from the sound. He tilts John’s chin up, forcing him to look into his eyes. He nods and Arlo sucks in a sharp breath.

“Then what’s stopping you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this ages ago, like damn, 2018 I think? I'm not sure if my writing has improved or if it turned out worst than two years ago.


	3. Talk [Serlo]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arlo reminisces his time with Seraphina before he moves on to a new life. 
> 
> Or letting her go is the best decision he has made for himself and for her.

It was always the little things, he reflects, that makes it impossible to truly forget about her. It could be the scent of perfume or just the sight of a simple object, then his vision clouds and all he sees is magenta. She finds a way to worm her way back into his everyday life; she is a fragment, a memory— that he couldn’t quite detach from his reality. He found it simply annoying, they were over, they were both done; their relationship did nothing but hurt them in the end. A sigh escapes his lips, stealing one last glance of the apartment, a wave of nostalgia and wistfulness washes over him like the waves crashing against the rocky cliffs, splashing water into the frigid winds that dissipates it eventually. It held so many memories of them, both joyous and hurtful, yet precious all the same. The once homely, ornamented apartment filled with precious photographs and pretty decorations was stripped bare, leaving only furniture devoid of personality and colour that was once present. Despite that, he finds himself seeing her there, he could never fully erase her touch from this space.

Arlo looks away, redirecting his attention to the task at hand — packing away the remaining objects laid out on the table. Methodically, he tucks away the items inside, arranging them strategically so everything had its space. He was down to one item, making a grab for it, Arlo pauses and his hand hovers hesitantly on the face down picture frame. Picking it up and turning it to face him, he stares at the photograph in his hand, a picture frame containing a photograph of him and Seraphina. He recalls the memory perfectly; it was on the last day of summer during college and they, along with Remi, Isen, and Blyke, had decided to hit the beach. Isen had taken the photo after he had successfully coerced them into that pose with his lips pressing against her forehead, arms firmly wrapped around Seraphina’s waist while her arms were loosely wrapped around his neck and a content smile resting on her lips; they looked so peaceful then. The sun was setting behind them, red-orange hues merges with the once blue skies and the clear seas, bathing them in warm colours as the sea water laps at their feet. 

Arlo tucks the frame away in the box before finally closing the flaps and sealing them shut with the last of the packaging tapes he had. The memories held within these four walls, Arlo steals another glance, he would carry them for as long as his mind would allow him to. He knew that in time, all that had transpired between them from tender kisses and endearing words to pointing fingers and rising voices, would all be pushed back in the back of his mind; maybe not truly forgotten, but simply stored away in the recesses of his memories and only brought forward when he allows himself to. He closes his eyes and exhales, his shoulder slacks and his posture loosens, for now he would free himself from these melancholic memories. 

It was time to go. 

One day, maybe their paths will cross again and they’ll look back and reflect on those memories of sunsets and sweet kisses, of wishful thinking, and learning that love, despite being passionate, could never last without understanding and the willingness to swallow one’s pride to forgive and to ask for forgiveness. They loved and wanted each other, but desires can only last so long without the willingness to do what it takes to hold on and make it into reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This oneshot was inspired by the song "Talk" by Kodaline! Please give it a listen~


	4. forget-me-nots [reilo]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arlo becomes the Most Ancient Dream and only Rei remembers, but his memory of him comes in glimpses of blond hair and blue eyes. 
> 
> or
> 
> I need to stop writing ORV aus for angst. 
> 
> In case you have no clue what ORV is, it basically stands for Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint which is a webnovel that is currently being adapted into a webtoon. It's already out in Korean and Indonesian webtoon, but no English just yet so yeah, ahhhhhh.

Arlo stares at the words written on the blue screen appearing in front of him, his lips pressed to a thin line. 

[ Your ██ is eternity ]

His hand hovers on top of the screen, fingers trembling as he lightly traces the letters of eternity as if by doing so will change the fate he had carved out for himself. Arlo inhales deeply and wills away the screen. He turns his attention to the others with him in the subway, a faint smile curling on his lips as he studies the exhaustion weighing them down finally loosening its grip, allowing them to have some room to breathe and relax because finally everything is done. 

Arlo commits them to memory. He commits the way John's dark hair tickles Remi's forehead as he rests his head against hers while his arm wraps around her waist and pulls her close to him. He commits the softness of Seraphina's features as she cradles the Ancient Dream in her lap, her fingers combing through his hair as she whispers reassuring words to soothe him. He commits the smiles on Blyke and Isen's faces as they fall together, their hands intertwined while they sleep on the ride home. Then, Arlo turns to the man by his side, his hand reaching out to touch the soft curls of his pine green hair. 

Arlo eyes Rei with rapt attention, drinking down everything about him from the strong lines of his jaw to the softness of his hair to the curls of his eyelashes touching lightly tanned skin. Arlo's hand glides down to his cheek, thumb lightly tracing the thick scar on the side of his face. He is beautiful, always will be, no scar or missing limb will ever change that. Rei stirs beneath his touch, amber eyes fluttering open. Rei smiles softly when he sees him and something warm spreads in his chest as he smiles back, uttering his name like a secret prayer. 

"Rei." He says, full of affection. Arlo has gotten better with expressing himself, four years being stuck in an apocalyptic world where he could lose everything with one wrong move had changed not only him, but others as well. 

"Arlo." Rei leans in to his touch, his hand grasping Arlo's own in his. He brings it to his lips, planting butterfly kisses on the tip of his fingers to the bruises of his knuckles to the calluses of his palm to the back of his wrist, but his eyes never leave Arlo's face. He watches the way Arlo shudders from his touch, the way his eyes flutter close as his breath stutters with every contact; it makes Rei smile wider. The scenarios are over now, this was the end and finally, finally he can pour his attention and affection on him without fearing that this distraction would cost them. He remembers the words written on the blue screen that popped out of nowhere telling him that his ██ is called epilogue and so he holds on to that, his epilogue will be spent with Arlo by his side. 

They don't say another word, instead Rei pulls Arlo in his arms and buries his face in the crook of his neck. He breathes in the scent of him and sighs. He could stay like this forever. Arlo, in turn, loops his arms around his neck, fingers tracing a line from the back of his neck to his shoulder blades. They remain like that for a moment, basking in the warmth of each other. Then Arlo surprises Rei with three words he did not expect to leave his lips first, but then he supposes that there is a first time to everything. 

"I love you." Arlo's smile is beautiful and Rei grins as he lifts his head and commits that smile to his memory. He cups his cheeks, thumbs caressing the curves of his lips before he leans in and captures it in his own. 

"I love you too." 

Across them, they can hear clapping and someone, who they definitely think is John, muttering ' _fucking finally_!' with genuine fondness. The others are awake now and are watching them in various states of amused and happy. Remi beams at them, tears dotting the corner of her eyes as she exclaims ' _congratulations_ ' and proceeds to throw herself at them, enveloping them in her arms.

Arlo's chest aches with fondness as he returns Remi's embrace in a one-arm hug. The exhaustion and the fears are melting away, years spent witnessing one horror after another now feels so far away now that they're here. He cries a little, all of them do actually, as they pile in to join the hug. Years of fighting together, nearly dying for each other, had brought them closer and made their friendship stronger. 

When the train finally comes to a stop, they look at each other and smiled, this is their stop. Untangling themselves from each other, they clamber to their feet and move towards the sliding doors of the train. When it opens, they slowly step out into the platform; everyone except Arlo who watches them go, hands in his pockets and a smile heartbreakingly sad. 

"Arlo?" Rei looks back to find Arlo still inside the train and wearing such an expression that makes his chest hurt and dread twist in his stomach. He offers his hand to him and Arlo reaches out, however, rather than taking his hand, he puts a ring embedded with sapphires as blue as his eyes in the palm of his hand. "What are you—" 

Arlo pulls him in for one last kiss, desperate and yearning. When he pulls away, Rei can't find it in himself to speak so when Arlo plants one final kiss on his forehead before shoving him away, he can only watch in horror as the doors slide close, trapping him in there. 

The others noticed it too late as well and by the time they reached Rei, Arlo was already gone. As soon as the train disappears from sight, the platform beneath their feet disintegrates and darkness swallows them away. 

Rei wakes in his bedroom, tears in his eyes and a heartache setting fire to his chest, he can't breathe. He sits up, a sob leaving his lips as he brings his face in the palm of his hands. It was only a dream, one he can no longer remember clearly, so why did it hurt so much?

* * *

In the train, Arlo sits alone with his head resting against the tinted glass and tears running down his cheeks. He stares at the blue screen hovering just above his head, anger and grief bubbling in his stomach and curling around his heart. 

[ You have become the Most Ancient Dream ] 

He wanted to stay with them, to stay with Rei. In the past they had promised with their pinkies intertwined and their foreheads resting against each other that once this was over, they will live together and get married. It was a promise of a lifetime, one he can only hold on to and dream of because it will stay like that: a dream. Swallowing his tears and grief back, he carves the memories of their time together in his mind, letting himself relive them again no matter how painful it was. He wanted to remember each and everyone of them. 

When Arlo opens his eyes, the tears on his cheeks are dry and his lungs have stopped burning from quietly sobbing. He sits there for another few more minutes, gathering himself before he finally finds the energy to stand and make his way to the room calling out to him. He glances at the window, a part of him hopes to catch a glimpse of his friends despite knowing that it is only a futile, fragile hope. Arlo clowes his eyes and quietly berates himself, he needs to go. He only looks back once then, never again. 

* * *

Rei is viscerally aware that something is missing but he couldn't wrap his fingers around it. Like a phantom, memories of something escapes him and it leaves this heart-clenching sensation aching in his chest. He finds a ring in the pocket of his pants the day after, a ring embedded with sapphires as blue as the eyes he dreams of night after night. 

"Who are you?" He asks, pressing the ring to his lips. He promised someone, a long time ago, but he can't remember and this ache in his chest won't go away. 

He sleeps more often than not and he dreams and dreams of blond hair and blue eyes, of soft lips against his, of slight smiles that feels so warm in his chest that he couldn't help but smile and laugh. As soon as he wakes, the dreams leave him and he is left aching and yearning for something he can't remember. He takes a shuddering breath every time the dreams end, when the phantom warmth of someone's hand grows cold and he is alone in his bedroom staring at the ceiling, wondering if it was a dream or a memory. 

It's not only in his dreams that this phantom haunts him, Rei sees an imprint of him sometimes, a shadow in the corner of his eyes, always moving. He tries to reach out but his hand only meets the air, there's no one there and it leaves a hollow pain in his chest as he pulls his hand back. He needs to stop chasing after ghosts, ghosts who do not exist and yet they still do and he can't explain it, he can't. When he meets Remi and the others he feels like there's a hole left gaping at him and Rei can't stand it so he asks. 

"Do you feel like we're missing something?" 

The look of confusion on their faces was an answer enough, it was only him who noticed. 

Sometimes when he couldn't sleep at night, he climbs to his balcony and stares at the stars glistening far from his reach. When he does, a sense of familiarity washes over him, especially when he stares at a specific star in the night sky. Sometimes, it feels like it's watching him back. 

Then he falls asleep watching the stars that night and he dreams, he dreams of soft blond hair tickling his face, he dreams of lithe body pressed against his own as they cuddle in the mattress. Rei dreams of running his hand through his hair, mumbling sweet nothings in his ears as they lay there, just holding hands and basking in the warmth of each other. And somehow, somehow it does not feel like a dream but a memory. 

"Arlo." His name makes his heart race, "Arlo." He calls his name like a prayer, relief, grief, anger all melting into one as he reaches out to touch him. 

"Arlo." He cups his face in his hands, tears rolling down his cheeks as his fingers brush against the softness of his skin. Rei kisses him, kisses him gently, kisses him roughly because he knows, he knows that when he wakes, this will be nothing more but a fading memory in the back of his mind. He wants to remember, he wants to remember the warmth of his lips against his, the warmth of his body, he wants to remember everything. "Say my name, please." 

Arlo looks at him, eyes wide and trembling. His lips part and in a soft whisper, he says "Rei." 

And there is nothing more damning and beautiful than hearing his name leave Arlo's lips. 

When Rei awakens, warm and aching, happy but grieving, a hurricane of emotion bubbling from within him, he looks at the stars and wishes he could touch them—touch him. He wants to cradle the stars that bear his name and reassure him that he remembers, even just a little. Even if his memories of him come in pieces, he remembers him.

"Arlo." He whispers, hand clutching his chest as he wishes he could hold on to him just one moment longer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was lowkey inspired by Eine Kleine covered by Rachie, and me, being the weak person that I am, decided that yes, I must write this.


	5. sun and icarus [rei x reader]

A storm of snow and ember, the taste of ash on your tongue and smoke in your eyes. Frigid winds of winter and tears rolling down pale cheeks, your scream dies in your throat as the tip of his sword presses against your jugular lightly, drawing a thin line of red as he moves it across agonizingly slow. The cold nips at your fingertips, at your bare feet, but as you watch the home you knew and love burn before your very eyes, the cold is nothing compared to the chills crawling down your spine as you listen to the dying screams of your people.

This is your kingdom, your home — and nothing remains but cinder and the wafting smell of burnt flesh; the monument of your failure. 

_ You cannot save them.  _

Amber eyes, silver blade, lush pine hair — Rei is the spring to your summer, the soothing balm to your caustic nature. Now, you cannot help but wonder if you were a fool. You cannot feel the tips of your fingers, but still you lift your hands and with it, you grasp the blade tightly. 

“Finish me.” You whisper, closing your eyes as you apply pressure to the blade, pressing it harder against your own throat. “Let me die with my people, allow me that simple mercy.” You plead, the droplets of blood staining your palms being your only source of warmth. 

“Take her.” Rei commands, harshly jerking the blade away from your grasp. Sheathing his sword, he takes one last look at you before he turns away, leaving you to fall to your knees, his name leaving your lips in a hoarse scream. 

Gloved hands seizes your shoulders, dragging you back to your feet as they pull you towards the caravan. Writhing from their grasp, you reach out for him, calling out his name in desperation, voice breaking and tears kissing your cold cheeks with vigor. 

"Rei!" You cried but the bellows of the blizzard drowns out your voice, leaving you to grieve for your fallen kingdom and the boy you thought was the sun itself. 

And maybe he still is. Rei is brilliant in his own way, so brilliant and bright that he burns you the moment you reach out to touch him. As he is the sun, you are his Icarus, precious and yet so foolish, a beauty unmatched even as you fall, your burning feathers accenting the flashing emotions on your face. 

_ What a tragedy. _

He is nothing but a silhouette, the boy you used to know. The Rei you knew is gone, and perhaps he never was there to begin with. You mourn. You mourn for your kingdom, for your family, for Rei. The fire crackles in the distance, the winds bellow as the blizzard runs rampant. As just like that, Rei sinks like the sunset beneath the mountains blanketed by snow and all you could do is mourn and weep and swear that one day you'd take everything you lost back, no matter what the price. 


	6. Way Down We Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU where being a hero is normalised in unO but there's actually alot of conspiracies going on behind the curtains that a lot of the heroes don't know of. Arlo basically finds out bc of Rei's death and he's hell bent on like dismantling the system whatever it takes. He's sick of it.

_ But remember, there are two ways to dehumanise someone: by dismissing them and by idolising them. _

The truth about heroes is that they are not humans. _Not anymore_ , at least.

Heroes are something larger than life, a concept which encompasses all preconceived notion of one’s self and swallows it whole, leaving only shining accolades and bright smiles. All chiselled, stone cut features of marble statues and high pedestals boxed in glass cases, only to be adored from afar. Arlo knows that much.

The hazy smoke of city fumes and cigarette fills his lungs, burns his throat, leaving the taste of ashes on his tongue as he stands at the edge of the rooftop overlooking the bright city bustling with life, a splash of colour in the encroaching darkness of night. Arlo crushes the cigarette beneath the heel of his shoe, his gaze flicking down to his feet as he watches the dying ember dissolve into nothing, its light swallowed by the dark. He listens to the sound of rushing traffic, the droning chatter of the crowd beneath him, closing his eyes, he thinks of plummeting head first into the concrete floor, arms splayed to his side as if welcoming death with open arms. He edges closer, then stops, his weight heaving down on the back of his feet. Arlo dangerously rocks forward, his balance tethering him over the edge.

Wellston is the city of big dreams and starry eyes, hearts on their sleeves but venom on their tongue. This is the city he had sworn to protect, the stars as his witness, the earth at his feet as his podium, the people as his audience. This is his city, his home. Wellston is a city created to dazzle, to allure and appeal to others with its promises of glory and fame and power, fulfillment of dreams and quenching the desire of finding a place in the world. Arlo scoffs, he had been that person once; wanting something more than what he already has and hungry for recognition. Like a moth to the flame, Wellston drew him in and then burned him bit by bit.

A hero of the highest calibre. They sing his praises, their smiles unwavering as they take and take and take till Arlo can no longer give. He watches, helplessly, as they chip away pieces of himself deemed irrelevant, too out of character, and too human. He realises then, a little too late really, that beneath this golden city of dreams is a festering pool of stagnation and corruption. The brighter the light, the darker the shadow, he supposes, peace is never meant to last. Like all things, peace is made of blood and pain, albeit with more subtlety.

_ Your face all made up, living on a screen. _

Arlo opens his eyes once more, drinking in the sight of technicoloured light strobes dancing beneath the fog, tall buildings, and starless skies. This city fashioned him a throne, built him an empire, and made him king with too many strings attached.

Arlo takes a step back from the edge, a grim smile on his lips as he looks up skyward.

_ Death does not guarantee freedom. _

He takes another step back, turning heel as he hops off the rooftop’s edge.  He will not die bounded by strings. He will not die a puppet.

_**He will live on his own terms or not at all.** _

* * *

_ Red. _

Arlo stares at his hands coated in blood, examining them with clinical detachment. He hadn’t meant to kill him, but he just felt so angry. It seeped into his bones, boiled in his blood, festered in the pits of his stomach, a blinding white hot pain lancing through him as the man points his finger and sneers.

_ “You heroes are all useless. You act all high and mighty, but what exactly have you done to change this dump?” _

Arlo grinds his teeth together, eyes cold and sharp and cutting as he stares the man down, fingers itching to wrap around his pretty little neck and—

_ “You’ve done nothing! You change nothing!” _

He doesn’t remember moving, it was as if his body had a mind of its own and suddenly, he was upon him, hand grabbing him by the face and smashing his head hard against the concrete floor. A wet gurgle escapes the man’s lips but it falls on deaf ears as he repeatedly slams his skull on the concrete.

“Oh god, someone call—”

Red blood red. The sound of glass shattering. The murmuring grows stronger and stronger, high pitched and painful against his ears like nails on chalkboard. It shrieks, he hears a scream, or maybe that’s him?

“He’s supposed to be a—"

_Red. Red. Blue._ The sound of sirens filling the air. Someone sobs, is it raining? He feels a wetness roll down his cheek. Tears? No. _Blood_ , perhaps.

“Enough!” He lashes out.

Hot white pain Lance's through him, his limbs locking into place as electricity crawls every inch of his skin. The colours around him blurs, faces unrecognizable. The foggy sound of his body hitting the ground.

“How could he?”

Dark spots dance before his eyes, then…darkness.

_ Father tell me, do we get what we deserve? _

* * *

The prison cell is old and damp, the chill settling in his bones. Arlo feels his body sag against the wall, head lulling side to side as the ceiling above him dances and warps. Sedation, drugged. He tries to pull himself up straight, wanting to pull himself to his feet. He manages to, and the world swims. He chokes, bile rising to his stomach as he staggers forward, hands blindly groping around for leverage as he takes slow steps towards the bars only to fall to his knees. Pain jolts through his legs, through his spine and he doubles over, hands planted on either side as he heaves, emptying whatever contents were in his stomach.

Arlo collapses.

He resurfaces to consciousness a few hours later, the feel of cold metal around his ankles and wrists. Arlo stares at his shackles, then turns his attention to the dry blood caking his fingers, his lips pursed to a grim line as he stares at them. There is crusted vomit on his cheek and nose, a sour smell permeating the air.

“Arlo.” He tears his gaze away from his hands, in front of him, beyond the metal bars, is Remi. Her skin is pale, her hair tousled. Her eyes are missing their usual spark, Arlo stares back, a perfectly arched eyebrow quirking upward. “Why…”

She swallows thickly, peach coloured eyes glazed with unshed tears. Her voice trembles as she spoke, her shoulders shaking despite her obvious effort of trying to appear strong by keeping her head held high, spine ramrod straight. Arlo sees through her, she’s always been easy like that, wearing her heart on her sleeve for the world to see. Arlo tilts his head, a lilt to his tone as he spoke.

“Why what? Why did I kill him?” She flinches at the word kill, Arlo smiles. Pulling himself to his feet, he hobbles towards the metal bars, a hand reaching out for her only for Remi to step back, eyes wide with terror.

“I won’t ever hurt you, Remi.” He starts, a loopy smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He retracts his hands, letting them rest on the cool metal. “That man, however…” He drifts, gaze growing distant as he finds himself deep in thought.

“That man was nothing, just another face in the crowd.” He states, waving a hand dismissively.

“He was a civilian! Drunk, sure, but he was harmless and you…” Remi sputters, pointing an accusing finger at him. He watches, mildly intrigued by how the colour of her face was growing darker than the shade of her hair, her words failing to register. “and you killed him. We’re heroes, Arlo, we’re supposed to save lives.”

At that, Arlo throws his head back and laughs and laughs until his stomach hurt, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes at his sheer incredulity. He bowls over, the fringes of his blond hair shadowing his eyes. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

“Heroes, huh? That’s hilarious. You should be a comedian, Remi.” He lifts his head, smile now stretched to a full grin with too many teeth. “Saving lives? Ha, what will that do, what will that change?” Arlo drinks the horror written on her face, drinks the way her body freezes in place as she stares at him, slacked jaw and trembling.

“Wellston is a cesspool of corruption. You and I and all other heroes are nothing but puppets, pawns on the board that they’ll eventually discard when they have no use for us.” His expression shifts, the smile no longer present. His eyes are shadowed and cold and jaded. “I refuse to be thrown away like nothing.”

Remi opens her mouth, then presses it shut. She looks at him, emotions flashing in her eyes before she turns away, her pink tresses swishing in the air behind her as she leaves, not another word leaving her lips. Arlo watches her go, eyes half-lidded.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Remi. I don’t want you to end up like Rei.” She stops, her shoulders tense and taut as she slowly turns around, eyes hard and frosty as she glares at him. The corners of Remi’s mouth trembles, struggling to say the appropriate words, but she manages to bite them out and spit it at his face.

“Don’t you drag him into this.” With that, Arlo watches her whirl around and hurry down the halls, until she was nothing but a dot in the corner of his eye.

_ We get what we deserve. _

* * *

Once upon a time, a tale of siren’s lure and foolish dreams. A lost boy with ambition written his eyes and a city as bright as the sun. It called to him, held its gate wide open as it beckons him.

“Come!” The city cried, “Come to us and you will take what you have always wanted, what was always yours.” And the boy, enamoured by the glimmering buildings reaching sky-high and the allure of siren song, enters.

_ It swallows him whole. _

“Mine!” The city croons, sinking its teeth into the boy’s neck, marking him as its property. A new doll, a new puppet. The boy, unaware of his pitiful fate, dances to the rhythm of this city carved from the suffering of many and the blood of the innocent. They took him, pulled him apart, then pieced him back together with pieces that were not his own, forcefully put together to create what the city saw fit to serve its purpose and so the boy is a patchwork, a masterpiece, a tragedy.

“ _You are nothing without us_. You need us.” The city sinks its teeth deeper, the dazzling strobing lights blinding and painful, spots dancing in his eyes as he squints and tries to see through the thick veil of light pollution. “You will be nothing if you walk away. You will be nothing.” The shadows pool beneath his feet, slowly it eats away at the boy, drowning him bit by bit in the embrace of darkness.

He is the city’s property, and they will do what they see fit; thus they crafted him a throne, built him an empire, and shackled him to his castle.

Arlo remembers it, remembers foolish dreams and the want for recognition, to be something greater than who he was. The city gave it to him with a price: his humanity.

_ “These are all the rules you must follow. You’re a hero now, you must represent us with dignity.” _

_ “Put on a good show for us, okay? You’re a hero after all.” _

_ “That was pathetic! Letting yourself be injured like that, you’re supposed to be powerful. A hero can never show weakness.” _

_ “For a hero—” _

**_Enough._ **

Arlo feels their eyes on him. Watching. Judging. Prodding. Cameras held to his face, their flashing lights blinding him as they clamour for answers as he stands before them, hands shackled.

“What made you do it?” Their voices ring in his ears, the clicking sounds of cameras flashing joining the cacophony of voices.

“Why did you do it.” They continue to press on, roaring for answers Arlo will not give. He smiles for the camera like the city has taught him all his life, blue eyes sharp and cold as ice.

“Wouldn’t you all like to know?”

The earth rumbles beneath them, debris flying in the air. Screams fill the open air only to be drowned away by the sound of explosions going off in quick succession. Arlo uses the moment of chaos to elbow the guard behind him square in the throat, winding him. He does not hesitate as the guard staggers back, Arlo follows, grabbing his head with both hands and brings it hard down to his knee. From the corner of his eyes, he sees another guard charging after him, Arlo grins and grabs hold of the gun from the fallen body beneath his feet.

_ Bang! _

His ears are ringing, but the spurt of blood and the dull thud of the body hitting the floor has him smiling. Clicking his tongue, he watches the panicking crowd running like headless chickens, scampering for cover. Arlo closes his eyes, a heartbeat, he opens his them, the tell tale glow of his ability in active use. He glances down at his shackles, tilting his head as he easily rips the chain into two.

Crimson flames, grey smoke, the budding colour of dusk in the horizon; Arlo pushes through the crowd, basking in the havoc of the wretched city he once called home. He is not their hero, not anymore. Arlo is neither their puppet nor martyr, so he smiles and around him, the city burns.

_ Way down we go. _


	7. the kingdom burns [remlo]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and the kingdom burns  
> as the god mourns   
> his beloved. 
> 
> or 
> 
> god! arlo x human! remi

And the night stills and silence settles. Death hangs heavy in the air as blood and ichor merge like the setting sun dipping down the horizon of the glistening ocean, pooling beneath the shadowed figures underneath the overhanging branches of gnarled oak trees. The long, cascading, pink tresses splay on the splintered ground, matted in gold and red as she remains nestled in the arms of the hunched male. Underneath the scant lighting of the silver moonlight caught by golden eyelashes, dark circles bore heavy underneath his eyes. Pretty sky blue eyes glisten with unshed tears as he hooks his arm underneath her knees and the other wraps around her shoulder, supporting her weight as he slowly lifts them from the ground. She is pale, her breath short and shallow while her blood rolls down from the gaping wound on her chest and splatters on the ground. Her eyes flutter open and his heart sinks as a smile curls at the edges of her lips before she draws one last breath and death steals her life with a cold kiss. Arlo does not cry yet the earth feels the god’s grief through the trembling of the ground beneath his feet as it splits and cracks with every step he takes.

The night stills and silence settles, not even the lapping of the ocean water against the shore dares to make a sound. He is bathed in silver as the moon’s light encompasses the surroundings. Remi had always loved the water and he swore to her that when that day comes, he will bring her to the ocean, he never thought that the day would come too soon, too fast. He glances down at her, a shudder running down his spine.

_**Death does not discriminate...** _

The coldness of the water courses through his body as he wades into the ocean water, Remi held securely in his arms. Pressing a kiss on her forehead and another on her lips, Arlo lowers her into the water with utmost care, watching as the currents rock her hair in slow, fluid motion. A spirit rises to the surface and swims towards the blond deity, they glance down at the woman in his arms and the ocean weeps for him. The spirit places their hand atop Remi’s head and slowly, the water pulls her under gently. He does not smile at the spirit but he nods in gratitude and when the spirit submerges into the depths of the water along with Remi, it is only Arlo that remains; left to watch as her long, pink hair drifts upwards while she sinks to the bottom and only the memory of her remains.

_**Between the sinners and the saints.** _

And the night is still but the silence is shattered as the flames roar with the raging winds, sending smoke high onto the skies, tainting it with grey and flecks of flying ember. What once stood as a majestic shrine adorned with gold and glittering statues, is reduced to nothing but a pile of rubble and debris. Highlighted by the warm orange hues of fiery flames as they consume the foliage around him, Arlo stands in front of the decimated shrine, regret and remorse lost to the anger and content as the pillars that once supported the beautiful structure caves in. The ringing of the bells echo loudly as the earth beneath rumbles and the kingdom that once stood so mighty crumbles. This forest, this shrine, and this kingdom, they will all perish and he will make sure that no one will remember its existence as the hands of time move. The kingdom that had abandoned her, betrayed her loyalty, and claimed her life, Arlo will not allow it to exist after they had allowed her to be taken away from him, cruelly so.

And to the gods and goddesses whose pride is far larger than their bodies and madder than the storm clouds that would loom the skies, he would see them gone too. They had allowed this to happen, they had taken her away from him and so he will destroy all that they had worked on. Consequences be damned. His fellow deities will know his wrath and his grief.

Everything will burn and splinter, and Arlo is a god of his words.

_**It takes and it takes.** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this like, almost two years ago. time moves fast, yikes.


	8. the colours of you and the world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arlo is a painter, but he is his father's son first and foremost so he carries his father's legacy at the expense of his own dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you hadn't noticed, Arlo is my favourite character lmao. and the more i favour them, the more I make 'em suffer.

**i.**

Arlo paints his world in a myriad of colours. Onlookers see beauty and wonder, Arlo sees canvas and paint.

_Black and blue._

_An emptiness in your chest, bruises on your body, and a sadness you cannot place._

The city lights tear through the veil of darkness and rain, despite the cold and wet weather, Arlo finds himself wandering the streets bathed in coloured lights. Even in the haze of the rain and the veil of night, the world is bright and colourful while he is the colour of the void, consuming the space he feels does not belong to him. The ground makes him claustrophobic, so does his body, because while he has everything;

_Status. Money. Power. **F a m e**._

~~_Neither of them can buy him the ability to feel nor the reason to stay._ ~~

But, Arlo reasons with himself, who would want to stay in a ghost town filled with memories of heartbreak? No one. Yet a little part of him aches at the thought of leaving everything behind, but that is the price of change. Besides, he adds, a ghost of a smile (is it a smile? It looks too pitiful to be one) tugs at the corners of his lips, no one would ask him to stay and no one would ask him to listen.

While the world bathes him in hues of colour, when Arlo turns to stare at his reflection upon the glass, he sees only black and blue and bruises and an anger that is not his. He shuts his eyes and continues to walk, no destination in mind.

Arlo is alone. Soaked and cold but no intention of stopping. The world is bright and he is reminded by colours, no, people he no longer sees. The people he no longer has. Once, they were his to keep; Remi, Elaine, John, and then Rei.

_But all that he loves and all of those who had loved him found him too much._

He had too much. Too much on his shoulders, too much on his chest and too little to give in return when they would have given him the world.

(He would have given them the world if they asked, but they never did. How does one show affection when all his life he had only known fist and blood, teeth and skin?)

Rei had likened him to snow once; beautiful yet cold. So if he was snow, then Rei is sunrise on summertime; breathtakingly beautiful, but as soon as it ascends higher upon the skies, it scorches the city and bathes it in heat and humidity. He is kind as he is cruel but beautiful all the same.

_”You’re always so cold and distant”_

_”You never listen! Do you even understand how I feel?”_

And while the words they use changes, it was always the same at the very core and alludes to the same ending.

_”Let’s break up.”_

And Arlo let’s them go because he doesn’t have the strength to make them stay as much as he wants them to.

Arlo is alone. The rain soaks through his jacket, seeps through his skin until he can feel it in his bones, the chill enveloping his very being and then it is nothing but numbness again.

**ii.**

**Arlo stands in front of his canvas and paints** -

_it in shades of dry blood caking his knuckles and purple that reminds him of bruises and dusk. It is the sunset sinking behind still waters, telling of hot summer days to come as red and purple blends but among the sea of colours, a streak of grey scorches a mark upon sunset skies. It is Icarus with his arms splayed as he laughs because there is triumph (no matter how bitter it is on his tongue) in being the centre of the chaos as everything comes crashing down and death is imminent. Ember and wax float past his fingertips like prayers lost to the wind, it is the story they will never tell; Icarus laughed as he fell from the heavens, arms splayed and laughter bursting from his lips as he mocks the god._

it with nothing. He stares and stares but nothing comes to mind but monochrome landscapes of ruination and death. He wanted to paint the world he sees with colours, bright, brilliant colours; but to his frustration, the moment he raises his hand to begin his process, he stops and then stares and glares at the colours as if it was taunting him. Baring his teeth, he casts aside the palette, a dull thud resounding as wood clashes with cement. Arlo grabs the canvas from either side then hurls it at the wall, a frustrated cry escaping his lips -- he wants to break something.

_one. two. three. four._

As rage takes over, his actions are but a blur of memories of cracked wall and bleeding knuckles. He feels the exhaustion weighing down his body, seeping into his very bones till his knees weaken and he slides down, back against the wall and his head buried in his hands. He is his father’s son, but he is not his father. So why does the world expect him to follow in his footsteps?

_because it is your responsibility._

_because you are your father’s son and you must uphold his legacy at the expense of your dream._

Arlo digs his fingers into his skin and screams. There are no tears running down his cheeks, his eyes are dry but glazed with emotions he cannot express.

He doesn’t know how long he had stayed there, curled in on himself, fingers running through his hair. Arlo eventually finds the will to pick himself back up, to pick up the canvas and palette he had thrown aside. He places the canvas back on the easel and stares at the empty space then breathes and paints.

He paints his world in black and blue, gold and silver. A fountain filled with coins and a young boy whose reflection is distorted by the water. It resembled him in some way, from the colour of his hair and coldness of his eyes.

_cast your coin and make your wish, little boy. If you’re good it might just come true._

The fountain bleeds into another world plagued by death and ruination, and all that’s left is the young boy standing in the centre of the carnage. A wasteland of broken dreams and lost souls.

Arlo stares at the painting, a grim smile tugging at the edges of his lips; for every coin he tosses into the fountain, for every wish he makes, he loses a part of him. And he gave and gave till there was nothing left to give, till there was nothing left of him.

**iii.**

He stares at his hands blurred by tears. It was as if the weight of the world had come crashing down his shoulders and he finds himself driven to his knees and to tears as everything falls apart. His emotions are overflowing.

_Alone._

Arlo had always been alone. Alone under the shadow of his father. Alone under the limelight. Alone in the confines of his house. He has always been alone.

There is a fire burning in his chest. There is a fire burning every each of his skin, his lungs, the very core of his being. He can’t breathe.

_Why can’t he breathe?_

A sob escapes his lips, tears rolling down his cheeks. As he rises out of the years of indifference, of numbness, of feeling nothing, Arlo finds himself drowning in the crushing weight of his own guilt, of his own sadness.

Even if he stands at the pinnacle of success, Arlo will always be alone. It is a bitter fate, to have everything and yet you have nothing at the same time.


	9. et je m'envole [jarlo]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> et je m'envole = and I fly
> 
> this is based of the song derniere danse by indilla, well, kind of. godfather! arlo x assassin! john au lol. john is arlo's personal assassin and ...escort?

John doesn’t hesitate. In one fluid motion he grabs the man with his right hand, the bones creaking as he crushes his arm when he pulls him down to meet the dagger in his left, ramming it straight through his throat and across. The body drops, the dagger clatters. The echo of heavy footsteps resound in the eerie silence of the room until the deafening sound of gunshot fills the void. Another body drops, the footsteps continue. 

Arlo doesn’t flinch when the bullet misses him by a hair’s breadth before it lodges into the skull of the man behind him, blood staining his suit. 

“You’re buying me a new suit.” He blandly remarks as he shuts the leather book in his hand, giving the body behind him a cursory glance over his shoulder before returning his gaze at John. The man in question simply shrugs his shoulder, posture relaxing as he lowers his gun, sliding it back into the holster strapped around his waist. 

“You’re way richer than I am, besides, can’t you just toss it in the laundry?” 

Arlo graces him with no answer as he takes out a handkerchief from the pocket of his pants and wipes away the trickle of blood dotting the side of his face. 

"Call the cleaners, we're done here." He says, clicking his tongue when his left leather shoe slaps against the bloodied floor. Arlo makes a mental note of getting it cleaned later. 

John watches the way Arlo moves with fluid grace, navigating through the sea of bodies lying before him as he leaves. John traces the shape of his shoulder imposed against the scant lighting, watches as the curls of his blond hair bounces as he melts into the darkness of the hallway. Then he turns away and shifts his attention to his surroundings. The room strewn with bodies is a morbid sight, but when one lives by the gun then it is their fate to die by it. Arlo and himself, neither of them are exempt from it; it is the undeniable truth of the lives they lead in the veils of the city, in the shadows of the light. Everything pays in blood.

Sighing quietly, he does as he's told. 

_________

John is viscerally aware of the metaphorical leash Arlo has on him, not that he's complaining. The blond is his tether to his own humanity, the gravity to his weightlessness; he steadies him when spins out of control, teeth gnashing and his blood singing for carnage. So when Arlo uses him as a much needed distraction from his work, John complies and bends to his will. 

Arlo is beautiful, he always is, but John finds him even more appealing when he's flushed red against him and the only thing he knows how to say is his name. He traces the strong lines of his jaw with his thumb, tilting it up so he can press butterfly kisses down the length of his exposed throat. He wishes he could keep him his for a moment longer but Arlo is cruel as he is beautiful, so when morning comes he's left alone in bed and missing the warmth of the body once there. He doesn't linger on that thought, John knows he yearns for it but never lingers because that's not him and it never will be. 

He is the planet to Arlo's sun, he gravitates around him because he is his centre, his tether; but that does not mean he is not his own person. He belongs to Arlo, yes, but he belongs to himself just as much. So when Arlo leaves, he picks himself up from the bed and faces the dawn of a new day. John never lingers because if he does, then surely the weight of his sins will drown him in their depth. 

_________

"We're not in love." John says when he sits down with Arlo on the table, cradling a steaming mug coffee in his hand. Arlo's gaze flickers towards him, an eyebrow raised in question. 

"Don't say such obvious things." Arlo's tone is flat and his body language remains strong and firm, but John knows Arlo a little better than he should. His eyes are always the most expressive thing about him, and Arlo's eyes are studying him, picking him apart. 

"You're right." John says, sipping his drink as he turns away from him. "I shouldn't." 

They lapse into silence. 

It's love, but at the same time it isn't. John loves Arlo the way he loves ruin, morbid and damning but so utterly tempting and beautiful in its own way. It's neither sweet nor bitter, neither happy nor painful—the love he holds for Arlo is a quiet, understanding thing, a kind of love that knows that it never will be anything more than it is now. 

"Do you regret it?" Arlo asks, his tone surprisingly soft that it startles John from his musing.

John stares at him, eyes tracing over the sharpness of his features and sinking into the melting ice in the planes of his blue eyes. Perhaps he could have given him a more concrete answer, but too much time has passed from the present to the time he wanted something more than what they have now. 

"It's too late to ask me that." And that is the truth. There is a time to ask such questions and that time has long passed them. Asking if he regrets it now, John doesn't have an answer for him because it's too late to think of such things, not when they've come this far. 

"I see." And the resounding silence speaks more than they'd ever care to say. 

____________

John has every right to hate him, that, Arlo knows. The beginning of their story is not a fairytale, it's not a luxury a person who dreams in the shadow can afford. The beginning of their story starts with a tragedy that morphed itself into a form of salvation that eventually turned into something between hatred and affection, between sin and sense. Arlo needed a soldier, he needed every advantage he can get to take the place that is rightfully his so when he meets John, he pulls him apart and stitches him back together. 

John is a monster he created. Arlo took his humanity and crushed it beneath the soles of his shoe because he needed a soldier, a monster, one who would kill for him without questions asked. He saved him and then damned him and to Arlo, that was the best decision he has ever made. He feels no remorse or regret, he made his choice and he will live with it. He never was the kind to do half-measures. 

Arlo looks at him and feels fierce pride blossoming in the spaces between his ribcage. He knows the power he has over him and that no matter how much John tries (wants) to resist, he will always bend to Arlo's will because while he made him a monster, he made him a loyal one. He made sure of that.

When John loses sight of himself, he becomes the guiding light that leads him through the dark, winding path of madness. He is the moon to his tides, the cooling balm to his caustic nature, the other side of the same coin. Arlo loves him the way he loves starting fires; it burns him inside out but he revels in the flames of its destruction—at first at least. 

Loving John at the start was like swallowing the flames of hell; painful, fiery, and toxic. It burned and ravaged and destroyed, but even so Arlo continued. He saw it as a challenge, a puzzle, one that seared his skin and branded his heart. It wasn't easy, nothing ever is when it comes to him, but he tried and tried and let the flames burn brighter. He started the fire and John doused it in gasoline, together they watched it burn because they never wanted to let go. 

_Now—_

Arlo looks at John sitting across him, mind elsewhere as he gazes at the waves lapping at the shore. 

Now that they're older and perhaps a little wiser, the flames that once burned so bright that it hurt to look dulled. A forest fire dwindling away into a sea of ember. Arlo loves him but it's a kind of love built on fragile foundation threatening to give way. He does nothing to change it, there's no point in doing so, because Arlo ( and John as well ) finds comfort in knowing that certain things will never change.


	10. RED [ Jarlo ]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes within a dream. 
> 
> More mafia! jarlo cause I can't help myself.

John wakes within a dream. 

His feet pads against the soft soil as he darts across the field of spider lilies blooming blood red beneath a sky of monochrome. In the distance, standing beneath the horizon where the sun is nothing but a muted grey of light imposed on by the red flowers, John’s gaze falls on the pale yellow of Arlo’s hair. He thinks it’s rather poetic, or maybe ironic, the shade of yellow enveloped in red and grey as if slowly, piece by piece, the yellow that is sunlight and happiness is being eaten away. He’s much younger, so much younger. The face staring back at him couldn’t be older than eight years old judging from stature alone. 

_He’s so small._

John thinks to himself as he runs, closing the distance between them till he collides with the smaller body. 

_John wakes within a dream, but he is not in control._

He tries to fight against it, tries to fight against the burning rage pumping in his veins as he wraps his hands around Arlo's neck. He presses hard, fingernails digging into the skin. John can hear himself talk, but the sound of his voice is distant, muddled, as if he was listening to an old recorder with ears stuffed with cotton. His eyes are burning, tears rolling down his cheek as he talks and talks, and the world around them blooms in brilliant crimson, drowning them in its wake. 

But even as they drown in the madder shades of red, beneath the monochrome skies, his hands wrapped around his neck and a dull ache in his chest as he speaks words he cannot decipher in the haze of crimson, John loses himself in the blues of Arlo's eyes. Brilliant and beautiful. It reminds him of summer skies and the still ocean waters; a cooling shade of blue contrasting with the burning madness eating at them as they stay the way they are. 

Arlo says nothing, merely watches, impassive and quiet and thoughtful. His fingers don't stop clawing into the child's throat, no matter how much he wants to. It feels so, so real. It felt like reliving the moment when he was young and much, much more foolish—

Arlo's eyes are brighter and clearer in his dreams. Much more clearer, as if the raging storm of grey and ice and lightning had waned and left behind a sky so _beautifully blue_ that he couldn't help but stare and marvel. He wonders if this is truly the colour of his eyes back when he was young and innocent. It's hard to imagine it, Arlo being small and naive and helpless against a world whose lifeblood is violence and bloodshed. Hard to imagine. 

—and angry and brash. He has every right to be, he knows that; Arlo had taken away everything from him without any hint of remorse, without a passing thought. Arlo built him a kingdom and shackled him to its dungeon and left him to rot in there with the phantoms of the people he has killed for the sake of achieving their agenda. He was angry, and that anger burned and burned till it left nothing but a sea of smoldering cinder and smoke that plunged him deeper in the depths of insanity and despair. But then Arlo, in all his apathy and indifference and subtle beauty, slowly took it away. Piece by piece, he took his guilty conscience away, shouldering the burden for him. 

_"You need me." He says, voice calm and collected even with John's hand curling around his throat, itching to strangle him. "Who else are you going to blame for everything you have done?"_

_He feels the calluses of Arlo's hand as he presses them against his cheek, thumb brushing away his tears. "You can blame it all on me."_

Just the memory of it makes him shudder. 

John's hands fall limp by his side, he's vaguely aware of it, too engrossed in his own rapid torrent of thoughts that when Arlo speaks, it startles him.

"I'll never let you go." The child beneath him was no longer a child, it was his Arlo; cold and cunning and beautifully cruel in a way he has grown to love and hate simultaneously. John shudders, breath hitching as Arlo grabs him by the collar and kisses him harshly, teeth clinking together and copper on his tongue. 

The ground beneath them disappears and they're falling, falling in the sea of red and grey, streaks of colours that floats past their bodies as they breathe each other in and— 

John wakes to the darkness of his room, a warm body pressed against his side. Angling his body so he's facing Arlo, he reaches in, fingers curling around his hair and forehead pressed against his. Arlo's steady breath grounds him, keeps him tethered.

"What are you doing?" Arlo shifts, his voice muffled and quiet against the sheets. 

"Making sure I'm awake, I had a dream. You were in it." He says, brushing the strands of blond hair away from his eyes. His hand strays down to his neck, fingers pressing to the side to feel the blood pumping beneath his skin. Arlo says nothing as he gazes at him through half-lidded eyes, the haze of sleep slowly edging away. 

"Go back to sleep." Arlo eventually mutters, pulling away from him, rolling to his side. He doesn't question, not that John minds, they never ask too many questions, it's simply how it works for them. It has become instinctual, to follow and to fall together, fingers intertwined; even if they would never admit it. 

Once upon a time, John's anger burned and ravaged and scorched till everything around him is reduced to nothing but cinder and ash. Then he grew tired of being angry, he grew tired of despairing every life he took. When the fires die down and he's left standing in the centre of the rubble, Arlo offers his hand. Years ago, he refused it, years ago he did not understand. Years ago, he was a child plunged into the heart of violence. He's no longer that person. He takes his hand and finally he understands. 

Arlo needed him as much as he needed him; the moon and the ocean, the sun and planet. They gravitate around each other, always in each other's orbit regardless the distance—they'll pull each other in anyway. 

It's love, he thinks ( knows, really ). However, it's not a slow-burning kind of love, not an encompassing warmth, rather it's raging, blue flames burning fast, intense heat drowning them in the madness of something they can't quite put a finger on. John learns not to mind it, or perhaps he really doesn't mind but stubbornly refuses to admit it because he is proud as he is stubborn, a mountain who will never bow to the storm. Arlo is the same, too proud with too many walls and safeguards around him, even if he does relent and confess, Arlo never will. 

John doesn't have any will to change it, and in the end, it becomes a norm for them to dance around their blatant attraction to each other. It's frustrating, but neither of them have done anything easy. In the end, as time moves and shifts, John finds that he wouldn't have it any other way. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is me attempting to recreate the vibe of my hella vivid dreams, vivid to the point that I can feel the physical pain I suffer in them.


	11. YELLOW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arlo is fifteen when he succeeds his father.
> 
> "This is the first and last death you will grieve." He says as he crouches in front of his small, crumpled form, a hand warm and callused (deliriously he thinks it's the first time his father has ever touched him ) resting on his shoulder. "You can mourn for him for as long as you want, but remember that once you're finished, you will never have the time to mourn for anyone else again."

_Arlo is fifteen when he succeeds his father._

His father is not a good man, and in the end, Arlo supposes as he stands in front of his casket, he wasn't a good father either. He places the white rose on his father's chest, his fingers lingering a moment longer as if contemplating to touch his father's pale face. It's unnecessary—his father, dressed in white with his eyes closed and cheeks lacking any colour, is dead. But the urge to touch him pervades as if it will change an irrefutable truth whose evidence lies before him. 

Beneath the cathedral, bathed by the glow of the autumn sun and touched by its faint tendrils of warmth, Arlo refuses to admit that there is an ache ebbing away at his chest and unshed tears in his eyes. He refuses to admit that behind the walls of his apathy and indifference is a child mourning the loss of a father who he once looked up to because he was the sky and Arlo is the tree rooted to the ground, longing to touch the vast blue stretching out above him. 

Arlo tucks away any dredge of grief in him, his father's words ringing inside his mind as he turns away and faces the crowd seated at the pews, a flock of hungry vultures waiting to sink their claws in him. 

_"This is the first and last death you will grieve." He says as he crouches in front of his small, crumpled form, a hand warm and callused (deliriously he thinks it's the first time his father has ever touched him ) resting on his shoulder. "You can mourn for him for as long as you want, but remember that once you're finished, you will never have the time to mourn for anyone else again."_

_There's so much blood. The sense of utter wrongness and disgust curls itself around his stomach and wounds itself tight that it leaves Arlo a little breathless as he remains on his hands and knees, bile and water mingling in the back of his tongue as his eyes fixates on the red staining the marble._

_Arlo takes those words to heart, engraves it into his mind, and weaves it into his soul. He looks at his father through eyes hazy with tears and nods, " I understand."_

Arlo wonders if he truly understood the weight of his father's words then. He was barely seven years old at that time, a child who would have said anything to please him. 

He breathes out. He watches, for a passing second, the fleeting, misty breath of warm air leaving his lips; it reminds him of his father, a man made out of smoke passing through the spaces of his fingertips and disappearing to a place he can no longer follow. The thought itself surprises him, but he silently chalks it up to him processing the loss of a presence he once saw of nigh untouchable. Arlo addresses the crowd and speaks of his father’s achievements, recollect lukewarm ( nearly cold ) memories of barely there fondness for the man. He holds some semblance of affection for his father, sure, but affection has never been the driving force of their dynamic. It was always about control and power, a defined line between leader and subordinate, between king and pawn, respect and fear. 

When the funeral ends, an exchange of formalities begins. People flock to him like sheeps to their shepherd, condolences on their tongue and winding words of how their hearts go with his in mourning—but Arlo knows that these are merely empty words slipping from the mouths of serpents lying low on the ground, awaiting the perfect time to strike. By the time the crowd thins and only he is left standing by his father's gravestone, the weight of exhaustion settles heavy on his shoulders. 

"Arlo." Darren's sharp voice cuts through the silence. 

"Darren." He acknowledges him with a nod of his head, blond hair sweeping over his eyes, concealing the light imprint of rings beneath his eyes. 

"Let's go." Darren cocks his head to the side as he turns, cigarette smoke trailing behind him as he marches forward. Quietly, Arlo follows behind him, hands stuffed into the pocket of his pants. He’s vaguely aware of how cold they are as they press against the thin layer of his pocket’s fabric. Darren leads him to his car, a matte black Mercedes coupe that has Arlo raising his eyebrows. It’s one of the man’s prized possessions. 

“It’s rare for you to take this car out.” He comments, running his hand over the frame as he circles around towards the backseat. Darren grunts in response as he slips inside his own seat in the other side of the car. Arlo watches as the older man winds the window down, discarding the butt of the cigarette with one flick of his wrist. 

“Drive.” Drawing out another cigarette from the inner pocket of his suit, Darren sucks in a breath as he lights the tip. He takes a long drag of his cigarette, lets the smoke fill his lungs before he breathes it out, a long hanging cloud of gray disintegrating into the wind. Darren turns his attention to Arlo, lips pursed to a thin line as he studies the boy’s visage. The boy is like a wall, cold and firm, an enduring barrier against the harsh billowing winds; but like all things, he knows it will eventually wear away as everything does at the hands of time. Thankfully, that time is not now, he quietly applauds his fortitude, he’ll need it from here on now.

“I’m sure you’re already aware, but,” Darren says, lightly tapping his cigarette against the window, “it will be an uphill battle for power now that your father’s gone. You have a target on your back, they’ll either make you a puppet or get rid of you.” 

Arlo glances at the man beside him through his peripherals, the curves of his lips curling into a slight smile. “We’ll just have to make sure it won’t happen then.” Of course that is easier said than done, he’s well aware of that. When it comes to power and position, there are many variables to consider if he wishes to survive and take what is rightfully his. 

“It won’t be as easy as it sounds, kid.” 

“Don’t be disrespectful, I might be young but I'm now the head of the family, address me properly.” Arlo coolly reminds him, tilting his head to the side to face Darren. He rests his hands on his lap, fingers steepled together as he continues to speak. 

“I’m not trying to pass it off as easy, it isn’t. The executives see me as a child they can exploit.” Arlo holds Darren’s gaze for a moment and smiles wryly, “You’re no exception. You may be my guardian but that doesn’t mean you’re under any obligations to keep me safe, not without a price. That and internal struggles aside, the other families will surely take advantage of this opportunity to weaken our territory and cause trouble—”

Arlo’s eyes dim as he clenches his jaw. “—it will be a mess if I don’t consolidate my power fast.” 

Darren nods his head sagely, flicking the remains of his cigarette outside his window. “All of those, except one, are right. I am under obligation to keep you safe, I promised your father that you will succeed him, no matter what.” 

Crossing his arms over his chest, Arlo scoffs softly at that, “It doesn’t sound like him.” There’s a traitorous part of him that warms at Darren’s words, a part that he immediately squashes before it could even bloom to something akin to yearning; there’s no room for such things. 

Darren remains quiet, the words ‘he loved you in his own way’ dies in his throat before he could even think about voicing it, he’ll surely put the boy in a sour mood if he continues on. Here is the truth about Arlo that he knows the boy avidly denies within himself: he is a solemn child raised by bloodshed and violence because it would have been more cruel to keep him ignorant from the world whose teeth are sharp and claws even sharper; it would have swallowed him whole and spat him out in tattered pieces if his father hadn’t ripped the rose-coloured lenses from his eyes. Darren has watched them, has watched him, from up close and from afar, the boy beside him is a result of a man’s choice, a choice he had to take because he felt that there is no other option. Arlo would either sink or swim and Arthur made that choice for him; he would survive and thrive. It is the only ounce of kindness he could show his son.

Arthur took away his childhood and replaced it with a loaded gun. He took away his innocence by staining it with the blood of a man he had forced Arlo to kill in cold blood before the boy was even old enough to understand death, human mortality, and the shades of morality. Arthur pulled his son apart and stitched him back together so he could survive; it didn't matter if he could never learn what it would be like to live. So long as the boy survives then that would be enough. 

However, Darren wonders if there will come a time where enough isn’t enough anymore. He should have asked Arthur before but he could never find the right words to present his thoughts to him so Darren bit his tongue and kept his mouth shut. 

Just like what he is doing now. 

The drive home lapses into silence and it isn’t until Arlo speaks again that Darren stops mulling over long gone memories and worries of a distant future. 

“Loyalty to my father holds a different significance to being loyal to me.” Arlo starts slowly, testing the waters. “What exactly do you want, Darren. Everyone has a price.” 

Darren sucks in a breath and turns his gaze towards the window, the frigid winds of autumn sending goosebumps running down his skin. “I want out of the business once you consolidate your power.” Darren thinks of Leilah, thinks of the future he wants with her. He wants to start a family and he can’t do that while he’s tied up here, there will be no future for them if he stays. 

“Even if I let you walk, you can never run from this life, even if you try to.” It wasn’t the answer Arlo expected but he supposes it was something a long time coming. There is a bone deep exhaustion in the way Darren carries himself and a longing for something that this life could not give him, he doesn’t fault the man for it, but it is still rather surprising to hear him voice it out loud. 

“Then make sure it’ll never find me. It’s the only thing I’ll ask for.” 

Arlo purses his lips, sighing he nods, “Alright, we can draft the conditions of this contract when we reach the house.” 

Silence envelopes them once more. 

* * *

"I’m thinking of brokering a deal with the Dragans.” 

The statement causes Darren to pause as he stares at him, eyes wide. He quickly composes himself, fingers drumming against the wooden table as he mulls over his words. “It would be dangerous, there’s too many risks associated with brokering a deal with them.” 

“I know.” Arlo’s expression remains impassive, but his tone is pensive and there is apprehension clinging to his shoulder as he hunches over the dinner table, palms pressed flat against the wood as he considers his words. “However, obtaining their support will make the other executives more malleable and push back any plans the other families will attempt to pull with our current condition.” 

“That’s true.” Darren steeples his hands together, chin resting on top of his intertwined fingers, a grim expression on his face as he stares at Arlo. Beneath the glare of the sunset, the boy looked much older than he should, Darren spares it some thought as he levels him with a firm gaze. “The problem is that they’re too powerful for us, they can easily skew the loyalties of the executives. They’ll turn us into puppets before we know it." 

The boy sighs as he leans back. Darren's words are true, the difference in power between him and the Dragans is far too vast, Arlo would have little to no leverage over them during their negotiations if he comes to them this way. 

“It will be a last resort.” Arlo assures him, “I will make the other executives submit, be it by their own violation or by force.” 

“And if they continue to insist?” 

Arlo smiles as he rests his chin against his palm, “Then we get rid of them.”

* * *

Arlo extends his hand first. 

The executives gather together in the spacious dining table of Darren’s house, a still silence settling over them as their eyes wander towards Arlo who occupies the head of the table, a bland smile on his lips. Merely a day has passed since his father’s funeral but Arlo has no plan to grieve or mourn Arthur, he has done enough of that on the day he killed a man with his own hands. On the days following his first taste of death, he buried his father alongside his own trepidations regarding the morality of killing and his emotions. In his eyes, his father was long gone and whoever stood in his place was a phantom his hands could never hope to hold, no matter how much he yearned for it in the past. He inhales, pushing away the useless thoughts that contribute nothing to his current situation. 

“I’m glad you all can make it.” Arlo starts, cupping the steaming cup of coffee in his hands. “It must have been a bit of an inconvenience to have to push back other plans.” He takes a sip of his coffee, the curves of his lips pushing up as he keeps his smile polite and empty. This is how the games begin. 

The men gathered at the table voice their concern for his well-being. Their words are kind, their tones are warm, but Arlo is not his father’s son if he couldn’t see through the charade they spin for him in gossamer threads, tendrils barely visible as they await for the right time to ensnare and entangle. He has spent nine years watching the men before him, nine years spent on studying their quirks and committing them to memory under his father’s order. 

_“One day you will need it.” Arthur places nine files before him, each bearing the faces of the executives. There’s a slight smile playing on his lips as he flicks one of them open. “You can learn many things from observing people and your surroundings. Communication does not occur with words only, one can learn many things by reading a person’s body language.”_

He bats away their concern with the poise of a man who has played this game too many times to count. Arlo, instead, draws them into a conversation regarding how to move forward from where they are now considering he has become the head of the family. He hides the sharp, vicious smile tugging at his lips behind his cup, he sees the way the jaws of some of them lock in place as if they have swallowed something particularly bitter. He needs to remind them that he is the king and this is his kingdom, he won’t let them undermine his power so easily. 

Arlo is young. Too young. He is too young to lead but old enough to kill, maim, and murder without question. Of course, not all of them see him in such manner. Arlo sees the way Vaughn’s eyes darken as he steps back from the conversation to observe and assess. He sees the way Keene looks at him with something akin to approval, small, but approval nonetheless, he could exploit that. Maximilian, whose eyes are on him, nods when he catches his gaze. He has three potential pieces he could place on the board and Arlo will ensure he can seize them. 

When the meeting ends, the stillness that once permeated the air has turned to something more stifling and mad, but Arlo is willing to take his chances and the risks that come along with it. There are lines drawn on the sand and he is willing to cross them or push them if it means getting what he wants. He watches as one by one the men trickle out of the door, bidding him goodbye through clenched teeth and bruised prides. 

“Maximilian left a message.” Darren drawls, slipping into the adjacent seat next to him while nursing a glass of whiskey in his hands. 

“And?” 

“He’ll be here tonight. It’s probably going to be about his daughter.” Darren supplies, knocking back the remains of his drink. “She’s two years younger than you.” 

“Arranged marriages are outdated.” He motions for one of the maids forward, wanting his coffee refilled. “However, it has its merits.” 

“You won’t turn him down?” 

“There’s no reason to.” 

* * *

It’s as Darren predicted.

Arlo accepts the condition without batting an eye, he’ll find some use for his daughter when the time comes for it. 

The next day he receives another visit, this time from Maximilian’s son who regards him with the coldest of looks as he looms over him. Arlo keeps his composure and invites him inside. 

“I heard from my father.” Rei itches to slam the other boy against the wall, but with eyes on them, he keeps his hands stuffed inside his pockets but bares his teeth. “Remi doesn’t like guys.” 

Arlo sighs deeply, “I’m not interested in women either.”

“Then why—”

“Because it’s necessary. What her or my preferences are doesn’t matter. What either of us want doesn’t matter, there are other things at stake. Surely you knew that.” Arlo muses, the curve of his lips quirking up to a wry smile. Rei’s scowl deepens but Arlo brushes off his anger and outrage with a shrug of his shoulders. “While we are already engaged, I don’t care if she decides to see women behind my back so long as she’s discreet.” 

He has two of Darren’s men escort him on the way out. Rei resists, clearly having more words to say to him, but Arlo has nothing more to say to him. He doesn’t have the luxury to listen to his familial concerns for his sister’s well-being, Arlo has a business to operate and stubborn, old mules for executives to be put in their respective places which are either under him or in their graves. 

Three days apart, Arlo receives a visit from Keene and Vaughn respectively. 

Keene's conditions are easy enough to fulfill, not to mention the man is more transparent than he should be—it's Vaughn he worries about. Amongst his board of executives, Vaughn both holds an extensive amount of power and influence, if he wanted to, he could easily usurp Arlo. Instead, the man offers his support and it sets his teeth on edge despite the calm and collected exterior he puts up. 

"You really are your father's son." Vaughn says, as if it's the highest praise he could give. Arlo nods curtly. 

It is his defining compliment, he thinks, bearing resemblance to his father not only in looks but in mannerism as well, reaps attention and acknowledgement, be it begrudgingly or not. Arlo is a sculpture of a vision his father saw for him. Arthur molded him with his own hands, made him more stone and marble than human to keep him cold and unfeeling and grounded. He is his father's son, his protegeé—sometimes he wonders if that's all he'll ever be: a stone cut carving made from the monument that is his father. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of Mafia Arlo backstory lmao. I've been vibing to yellow by yoh kamiya while writing this, it's so catchy.


	12. Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rei is haunted by the ghost of a boy he had accidentally killed, this leads him to a startling discovery about Wellston. 
> 
> set before "way down we go".

_“You changed nothing.”_

His words echo in his mind as he stands at the edge of the rooftop, eyes hooded by the shadows of night as he overlooks the city. Rei pulls at the flaps of his collar, drawing them closer to fight the biting chill of the cold wind blowing overhead. He sucks in a deep breath, fingers curling into fists as he holds his breath in, shoulders tensing and then he exhales, shoulders drooping and his hands falling limply to his side. Two weeks have passed and yet his words continue to haunt his memories, haunt his dreams and taint it in colours of red and gold and black.

Rei remembers his eyes vividly. The way the hues of honey gold grow dull as he bleeds in his arms. He is no stranger to blood, but not once had his actions led to death like it did then. He has his blood in his hands and that left a bitter taste on his tongue. It wasn’t what he had wanted because in the end, his opponent was nothing more but a boy, a child, and his blood is in his hands—the very thought of it haunts him.

_“What did your blind loyalty achieve?”_

Rei screws his eyes shut, his breath stutters as he tries to expel the image of blood and gold from his mind. The cool metal beneath his hand keeps him tethered to this reality, the cool wind and the noise of passing traffic reminding him of where he is, that he is bound by gravity and not floating into the darkness of his own thoughts. He closes his eyes briefly and immerses himself in the ambience of the night time, allowing himself to appreciate the peacefulness presiding over the city and yet—something feels so viscerally wrong, he could feel it.

_“You call yourself a hero and yet you’re never there to protect those who need you most.”_

Rei grips the metal bar till his knuckles turn white. He gazes down on the city, lips pursed, heartbeat pulsing loudly against his eardrums, and the seeds of doubt blossoming into little saplings in his chest. He needs to prove those words wrong. Rei knows Wellston, has lived in it since he was a child. This is the city of dreams, of wishes coming true, of opportunity at the tips of your finger, waiting for you to grab hold and make it into a reality. There is nothing wrong with Wellston and yet that boy’s words still haunt him, still whispers in the back of his mind that it hardens his resolve right at this very moment; he’ll witness the truth for himself. He’ll prove to himself and that child that Wellston is nothing like the other cities wrought by civil war and suffering and monsters disguised as human beings—Wellston is the city of heroes.

Oh how wrong he was.

The night grows cold but the sinking sensation in his chest is colder. Beneath the shadows of moonlight, in the spaces of lying phantoms in the darkness, Rei watches the horror in front of him unfold. He freezes, paralysed by his own shock and mortification. In the veil of night, in the gentle passing of the autumn breeze, he swears he hears laughter resonating in the emptiness and a passing mockery. 

_“You’re nothing but a blind dog calling itself a hero.”_

The man is familiar, no, Rei knows him, has seen him again and again on the media with a pleasant smile on his lips and kind words dripping like honey from his mouth. A hero, a sworn protector, and yet...Rei watches as the man digs the heel of his foot on the woman’s head, forcing her to bend her quaking figure before him. 

"You will do." He says as he bends over and grabs her by the scruff of her neck. "You'll be good, right? Otherwise, what will happen to your daughter?" He asks, humming softly as he drags the body whose hands drag limply by her sides as tears race down her cheeks. 

His limbs lock in place as he watches, mind whirling with thoughts wading into dark, dangerous waters. Desperately, he wants this to be nothing more but a hallucination, for it to be a product of his own imagination. But it isn't and Rei watches, a complicated ball of emotions knotting together in the pit of his stomach. It could be an isolated incident, he tells himself as he moves, keeping himself pressed against the shadows as he follows after the pair. Dread and anticipation weighs heavy on his shoulders as he presses himself against the wall, ears straining to hear their footsteps as they shuffle along a series of twisting, interconnected alleyways he wasn't even aware of. 

_"Fool."_

The ghost whispers, wearing a smile stretched from ear to ear. A wave of nausea washes over him as he witnesses Vaughn, the city director, step out from the shadow. There is something sharp and callous and dark about the older man that he cannot console with the image he has of him from years ago. The man who inspired, who encouraged, who treated the people with such benevolence, is nowhere to be found and it leaves Rei wondering what else has he missed. 

_"You're nothing but the puppet they made you out to be."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been having such a massive writing block so I'm trying to fight it with this one 🙃🙃🙃 it's not really working, my head is still dry of writing ideas and motivation.


	13. waterfalls coming out your mouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning: swearing, mention of alcohol, smoking, implied drug use, mentions of sex. 
> 
> A/N: I don't ship it, but I thought it would be hilarious to just write. All characters are aged up!

Zeke is an asshole, but so is he. John wonders if perhaps they deserve each other. 

Their relationship is nothing special, it holds no deeper meaning other than needing to feel something more than just the emptiness in his chest. Zeke lets him do whatever he wants, lets him get his fix and leave before the sun rises on the horizon—it's an easy and convenient arrangement.

Though, there are rare times when they become a little more than just 'fuck buddies', and a little less than friends. It's simultaneously too intimate and shallow enough to call it acquaintance. 

"Stop thinking too hard, steam's coming out of your ears," John rolls his eyes as he elbows Zeke just hard enough for him to shove John away and hiss in pain. He snickers. 

"Shut up and just pass me the cigarette, asshole—" 

"Buy your own, this shit is expensive, dickhead," Zeke gives him the cigarette anyways. He plucks it from his finger and wedges it between his lips. He takes one long inhale ( he hopes it'd kill him fast, really ) and lets the smoke fill his lungs and burn his throat before he exhales. 

"I'll pay you," He says, rolling his eyes, "god you're so fucking stingy," John passes it back to Zeke who immediately takes it and taps it lightly against the rail, he watches the ashes drift through the wind and disappear to the pavement below. 

"Yeah, yeah whatever," Zeke flaps and hand at him, "why are you here anyways? I thought you were dating that super hot chick from your university? Shakira? Was that —" 

"It was Seraphina, dumbass—" 

"Oh, well whatever, I don't care. So what happened?" John inhales loudly through his nose as he leans against railing. It's cool to his touch and grounds him to the present. 

"We broke up. She told me I'm not the person she thought I was or something, wasn't exactly listening after she said we were breaking up." 

"That's rough, buddy," Zeke pauses, a smirk on his lips as he throws an arm over John's shoulder, "though, did you get some—" 

John shoves his face away, groaning at his statement. Of course he'd say that, it's just so him that John doesn't know whether to laugh or punch him, he might do both if he really feels like it. He settles for neither and instead buries his face in his hands, a laugh half-pained and half-amused escaping his lips. 

"You're such an asshole! I wasn't even with her for that, you fucking moron. Why are you the way you are?" 

Without missing a beat, Zeke responds, "I was dropped on my head as an infant, several times." 

John believes him. 

"Suprised you're not dead," 

"Wish I was," Zeke shrugs his shoulder as he drops the forgotten cigarette and crushes it with the soles of his shoes. 

"Morbid," A blanket of silence drapes over them as they stare into the horizon. "So, what are we going to do now?" 

"What you obviously came here for," 

"And if I tell you I didn't come for that, what are you going to do?" Zeke turns to look at him. There's something foreign in the way he looks at him, it's sharp and cutting and so unlike Zeke that it sets his teeth on edge, just a little. 

"John," Zeke puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it firmly as he keeps his gaze fixated on him. "I don't know what your thinking but remember the rules. We," He sucks on a deep breath. 

"We're not friends, and I'm certainly not looking for a relationship or anything like that so don't, don't cross the line otherwise it's over." 

John inhales lightly, brushing Zeke's hand off his shoulder, he turns away and heads for the door. "Right, let's go then." 

"John—" 

"It's simple, we get hammered or get high, fuck, and then leave. No questions, no feelings, that's how we do it," John tilts his head back, an eyebrow raised and a smile on his lips, "right?" 

"Right." Zeke follows him back to his apartment and locks the door behind him. And if he wakes up missing the warmth beside him the moment he rises out of bed, well, that's between him and the voice in the back of his mind. 

_**"Coward."** _

_Oh well, whatever, right?_


	14. in the night we chase (serlo)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is based on a dream I had about unO where John has a doppelganger except he had grey eyes and died with seraphina as a witness, she remembers nothing except tid bits of it. pretty sure there were some more gruesome details in my dream that i could not really remember anymore but yeah--

~~_shadows. ghosts. slivers of memories lost in the darkness._ ~~

~~_a past you cannot escape. and death that lingers in the stillness._ ~~

~~_who is telling the truth? what secrets lie deep in the crevice of your mind?_ ~~

~~_What do you fear?_ ~~

━━━━━ 

_Seraphina is haunted by memories she cannot quite remember_. 

_The woods call to her. Beckon her to come and step into the undergrowth where the grass clings to the soles of her feet, where the dampness and coolness of the earth seeps through her skin. It beckons her to push pass the low hanging branches and into the heart of the forest where it waits. The heart beckons her to come closer and closer to the centre of it all, but the moment she reaches the clearing, into the heart of the forest where patches of overgrown grass brushes against her knees, tickles the back of thighs—the forest becomes eerily quiet. Not even the woodland creatures that come to life at this hour dare make a sound._

_She feels a knot in her stomach, Seraphina can feel the oppressing coldness of the night, the eerie silence pressing against her frail, feeble form as she clutches the brown teddy bear with a bowler hat and red bolo tie to her chest. She shivers, her short white gown providing her little warmth amidst the chill. Dread pools at the pit of her stomach, a voice nagging in the back of her mind about how this, Seraphina takes a quick, cursory glance of her surroundings, was a bad idea. Behind the treeline across the field of overgrown grass, hidden in the veil of night, Seraphina was sure something is watching her_. 

The memory ends there. It frustrates her to no end. The memory (delusions, perhaps?) ends there, she cannot recount how she had strayed that far into the woods, Seraphina was sure Eric...

_Grey eyes glinting under the moonlight. A smile, razor sharp and out for blood. The beating of her own heart loud against her ears, out of breath. Goosebumps. The sickening sound of something tearing through flesh._

_Seraphina presses her face in her hands, fingers digging into the skin of her forehead. Soft sobs escapes her trembling lips. Eric is dead. Eric is dead. Eric is dead._

_**Eric is dead and yet she is alive**._

Two years is barely enough time to reconcile with that fact. She has so many questions, so many questions that in order to keep herself sane in the past two years, she filled three notebooks with questions about that night. Some questions repeat, some making no sense, but there is one thing she knows ring true, these questions will get no answers. 

_She had lived. For three days (it felt like it had only been hours then, but at this point Seraphina doubts her own mind) they have searched for her, only to find her almost, almost fifty kilometres from her own home. She was caked in blood and dirt and grime with barely any recollection of what had happened. The stench of death lingers in the air, mixing with the damp smell of trees and earth, somehow Seraphina had not noticed the rotting flesh of her best friend lying just a few metres away from her. The moment her eyes landed on the decaying corpse infested with maggots and worms, a terrified shriek escapes her lips and she finds herself bursting into tears, pleading, begging for the officers to believe her that she did not do anything, that she remembers nothing._

_It was a long, mentally taxing investigation. There was no evidence that tied Seraphina to his death, hell, according to the experts, it couldn't possibly be her because there was nothing human about the bone deep lacerations on his body. He was ripped to shreds by something with claws. Long, impeccably sharp claws._

"Seraphina." A pair of hands gently cradles her in theirs. A familiar, soothing presence. Her anchor. Seraphina leans in, resting her forehead against his shoulder, breathing in the familiar although faint smell of cinnamon and lemongrass lingering on his skin. 

" _Arlo_." She rasps. Once Arlo releases her hands, she wastes no time to wrap them around his waist, burying her face at the crook of his neck, curly blond hair tickling her forehead as she huddles against him. "You came." 

"Of course I would. You were in hysterics, Sera." Arlo wraps one arm around her waist, pulling their bodies together while his other hand combs its fingers through her hair. "Are you having those nightmares again?"

Seraphina doesn't speak, instead she simply nods her head and remains in his protective embrace, his warmth encompassing the midnight chill settling in her room. Eventually Arlo pries her away from him, making her whine softly at the loss of his warmth, but immediately appeases her once he climbs into her bed and pulls her back into his arms. Snaking her arms around his waist, fingers clutching the fabric of his clothes, she buries her face in his chest and curls up against him. 

Arlo loosely wraps his right arm over her shoulder, tangling with strands of magenta as his fingers mindlessly combs through locks of her hair. The shaking of her form eventually subsides, her breathing slow and even, but her hold on him remains tight and so Arlo remains there, a soft sigh escaping his lips before he dips his head in and presses a kiss on the top of her head. She was doing so well until that, Arlo holds her closer to him, person saunters into their school, hands stuffed inside his pocket and a scowl on his face that matches his slouched shoulders and glaring golden irises as he kicks up the earth he walks on.

Neither Arlo nor Seraphina could see John, no, all they could see is Eric. An exact replica with his eyes being an exception, cold golden eyes, which even under the glint of the morning sun held no life in them. Looking directly into them felt like being violated, it made him feel inexplicably vulnerable underneath his sharp gaze. Arlo couldn't put a finger to it but there is something utterly misplaced, dare he say 'wrong', about John. The boy's appearance at their school opened old, festering wounds along with a crate full of questions left unanswered. 

Arlo remembers that day with absolute clarity. 

_He wakes to an empty room where silence blankets over him, threatening to suffocate him in the stillness of the morning where slivers of sunlight creep through the gap between the pink curtains of Seraphina's ridiculously spacious bedroom. Arlo thinks none of it until he creeps down the spiral staircase and wanders into the living room in search for the two only to find no signs of them. He remembers thinking of it as a joke, the two did have quite a sense of humour and so he decides to play along, searching the house and calling out mockeries that was sure to get both of them springing to their feet and vehemently argue with him._

_Only it hadn't and the house felt oddly, disturbingly quiet._

_A queasy, dreadful feeling sinks in his guts and Arlo finds himself bolting through the house in search of any signs, anything, that could give him any indication of where they are because panic is kicking in and adrenaline is pulsing in his veins and there is a faint ringing in his ear mixing with the thumping of his heartbeat because something is awfully, awfully wrong and that's when it hits. The smell of rotting flesh causes Arlo to stumble back, his stomach clenching at the sight of blood and entrails and gore. He empties his already empty stomach on the floor, tears stinging the corners of his eyes._

Arlo squeezes Seraphina in his arms, using her presence to ground himself back to the present. Two years had done nothing to erase the memories, thea grief, the nightmares that haunts him in his waking hours, in his sleep. Curling in on Seraphina, he convinces himself to sleep, to rest. He'll chase these ghosts tomorrow, but not tonight, he'll squash this sudden fear gripping his chest because right now Seraphina needs him. She needs a pillar to lean on, to keep her steady and upright when the wild winds threaten to knock her down.


End file.
